


Whiskey Bent

by casfallsinlove



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s05e04 The End, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-05
Updated: 2013-11-05
Packaged: 2017-12-31 14:21:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1032706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casfallsinlove/pseuds/casfallsinlove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a motion of hopelessness, anguish that this shouldn't be happening because tomorrow is the end of the world. It's sad and it's lonely. It's quiet chaos and despair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whiskey Bent

**Author's Note:**

> this is end!verse, so all the usual angsty warnings apply

Tonight is your last night on earth. 

Dean appeared in your cabin twenty minutes ago, drunk and lost, his eyes hard and cold. 

You wait for the speech, the one you've seen him use before on women, an excuse to give in to the thing you've both been shoving away for too long now. 

He doesn't give it. Just sits beside you on the floor, back against the unforgiving steel frame of your bed. A bottle of whiskey dangles from his calloused fingers. (When doesn't it, these days?) 

You offer him a pill or three. He shakes his head, so you take them for yourself. Waste not, want not. That's what Chuck's been drilling into you since you arrived at this godforsaken place. 

Then he puts the bottle down and twists so he's leaning into you.

His palm is hot on your thigh. 

The world shatters.

Fingers. Your fingers clutch at his shirt, his shoulder, his chest, his wrists, his hands. They grasp at him one minute, as if determined to never let him leave, and then push at him the next, because sometimes you see him and you hate him. 

Your eyes sting but you hardly notice; his arms are locking you against his torso, firmly holding you in place. If you struggle, they tighten. If you cling to him, they cling harder. 

It's very new, this proximity. You've never held each other before, not like this.

You haven't even kissed yet.

Your hands tremble, but you won't cry because that's a human weakness that you have no intention to succumb to. 

What a bastard. What an absolute bastard he is to do this, tonight, when it's too late for anything else. He knows you're angry at him, can't not after all the hurtful things you've yelled at each other in recent months, recent years. 

He doesn't argue with anyone else in this camp like he argues with you. 

He doesn't seek anyone out for his last night on earth except for you. 

Because all you have left is each other; you're the only two in the world who truly knew and remember Sam, who don't see the Devil but the Boy King who didn't ask for any of this. Who have fought side-by-side and know each other's every expression. 

Dean's fingers have slipped around your back now, warm through the thin cotton of your shirt, whole hands pressed firmly to your skin. It would be reassuring if you couldn't feel him shaking. 

He whispers your name, just _Cas..._ and something in you collapses. Your cheek crashes to his shoulder, nose brushing the crook of his neck. 

He smells like gun oil and blood, salt and sweat and earth, so ingrained that no cheap soap can ever scrub it away. 

It's familiar. It's nice. It's also strangely entrancing, that exposed skin between the open henley collar and his neck. The part you don't usually get to see, aren't allowed to touch. 

Hands wander. The seam of his shirt slides through your fingers until they are padding lightly across bare, alcohol-flushed skin. 

That's all humans are, really. Skin and bone and muscle. Blood and brain matter splattered on walls and rotting corpses in the form of monsters, their humanity long gone. 

You shiver.

Fingertips softly travel up his jaw and then back down again. You built this body, particle by particle, atom by atom. You know it intimately, but this is the first time you've touched it like this.

Mandible, thyroid, trachea, clavicle. Pectoral mayor muscles. 

He hums quietly at this point, the vibration shuddering through you, too. 

Your fingers catch gently on the edge of his shirt, caught on a button, bumping over it, but continuing their journey on perhaps safer, clothed, ground.

Manubrium. Ribs. Sternum. 

The path is slow, steady. You want to memorise every line, every curve, every touch.

It gets softer after the ribs. Unprotected, less important organs. Organs left to fend for themselves, unrestrained from cages of bone. 

Liver, stomach. Hip. Abdominal muscles. 

He makes a soft little noise in the back of his throat that you immediately want to hear again. 

The soft cotton of his henley, worn thin from a hundred hand-washes in harsh cold water, puckers in your fingertips as you find the hem, that final barrier.

And his hand snaps closed around your wrist. You can feel his pulse throbbing hard and fast. Or maybe that's yours? 

Just one word. Breathed as if he has no breath. _Stop._

You want to ask why, but you already know. 

In a bitter echo of your earlier motion, his forehead falls to your shoulder. It almost knocks you off balance.

It's a motion of hopelessness, anguish that this shouldn't be happening because tomorrow is the end of the world. 

It's sad and it's lonely.

It's quiet chaos and despair. 

Lips, and a shudder.

His mouth brushes your neck. Just for a millisecond, but time stopped being relative when you lost your wings. 

Hypocrite. You can play this game, too.

Your fingers, momentarily stilled, continue their exploration. They slip underneath his shirt and skim across his hot skin until they discover the bottom of his spine.

He stiffens, inhales sharply, and it's wretchedly satisfying that he's not the only one affected here. 

You drag your nails up almost imperceptibly, pulling folds of material with you, following the channel created by his vertebrae. 

The arc of his torso is curved against you, fusing you together. There is something comforting about his weight, solid and warm. 

One of his hands gets lost in your hair ( _get a haircut you fucking hippie_ , he's always saying), but he wraps a cowlick around his finger like a lifeline, tugging gently as if to ensure that you're there and you're real.

In response, you press your lips to his jaw, just beneath his ear. 

A faint murmur. Mouth against skin. His name. Just once. _Dean._

His muscles contract, clutching you tighter, unyielding. His reply, a whisper. _You're killin' me, Cas._

Anger comes. Frustration. Because _he_ is doing this. He's the one who made you fall so hard and fast, who is leading you to your death in battle tomorrow. 

You recoil. 

The small distance you create forms a gulf, swallowing the intimacy between you and replacing it with confusion. There's a strange ache in your chest when your response, _good_ , visibly shocks him. 

His eyes, now warm and so green, find yours. He asks _why_. (You'll get your turn later.)

When he looks at you like that, you think your anger is misplaced. There are many reasons why you're here right now, but the fault lies with God, not the Righteous Man (for that is what he has always been, and always will be). 

_Don't we deserve a happy ending?_ you settle for.

Rough stubble grazes your cheek. Soft lips touch your skin. Once, twice, three times, until he's a whisper away from your mouth.

 _Maybe this is as happy as it gets_ , he answers.

This isn't fair. He isn't being fair, or kind, and you suspect that he knows it. 

A shiver of desire. An ache of longing. 

You turn your head, just a fraction of an inch. Corner of lips meets corner of lips, parted, and you gently touch them to his, because he is a magnet with an irresistible pull. 

(Always has been.)

You feel his exhalation, his fingers pushing further into your hair. 

Shiver. Desire.

Ache. Longing.

Lips close, mouths move. Tongues probe, slowly and torturously.

It feels like he's breaking you in two.

Recoil, again. But gentler this time. Fingers. Oh, fingers. Yours come up to his face, tracing his forehead (and that small scar from a demonic knife fight three months ago), the curve of his cheekbones, the ridge of his nose, the prickle on his jaw, his kiss-swollen lips.

He kisses the pad of your finger before lowering your hand.

Your turn now. _Why_.

A small smile. _Last chance saloon, I guess._

His smile fades in the shadow of your look, and his real answer snatches all the breath from your body.

He brushes a thumb over your chin, shaking his head softly. 

_I dunno. You--you turn grave-dirt into stardust, man._

You suppose it doesn't really make sense, but your eyes close because they hurt and he's so close, he's right there, and you're going to die tomorrow.

Six years spent trapped in a stalemate comprised of faulty logic and rationale, of fear and brokenness, unravelled with something as simple as a kiss. 

But then you hear him utter your name, in a rush, with a groan, like he can't hold it in any longer. _Cas._

This is when it happens. 

You fall together in a slow dance of discarded clothes and lips on skin and hands everywhere, all at once. It's intense, and raw, and there's a sense of vulnerability that scares both of you. 

And you need him more than ever. 

He's careful and soft where you expected him to be messy and rough. When he pushes into you, deep and desperate, your hands cling to his clammy back and you ache ache _ache_ for him. 

His whiskey-tinged breath mingles with your own, ghosting hot across your jaw. You're still on the floor, the wooden planks of the cabin gnarled against your arching back, the rug near your feet scratchy and crumpled as your toes curl. 

Pleasure crashes over you in ebbs and flows, so heady and so fierce that when you finally come, you come untouched in the space between your bodies and it leaves you feeling boneless and shaken and completely in love.

Dean, eyes wide and adoring, whispers a curse and crests into his own orgasm, still buried inside of you. He tries to squeeze his eyes shut against the tears, but you see them anyway. 

Afterwards you lie tangled together on the floor, naked and sticky. He smooths your damp hair over your forehead, and you tell him that you hate him, that he is your everything and you hate him, you love him, you hate him. 

A kiss to your hairline. _I know._

Of course he does, because he hates himself more than anyone could hate him, more than the world combined. But you love him so deeply, so profoundly, that the very sight of him is unbearable. 

The aching sadness stretches between you, almost overwhelming. 

You kiss, the harsh movements of your mouths replacing words like _I'm sorry_ and _I wish we had forever_ and _I love you, too_. 

When you look at him, pressed so close together you think you could probably count every freckle, he meets your lips softly and whispers, _Ride with me tomorrow._

 _Okay._ Because it's your last chance saloon. And because you love each other despite the inevitability of the world ending. And you aren't going to leave his side now.


End file.
